Eliot Sherman: Many ways to confront the West Philadelphia homeless

Where my hustlers? That is one of the many questions posited to the listener by Jay-Z in the song Change Clothes, from his latest offering, The Black Album (I can't decide if he's seen Spinal Tap, therefore making it a brilliant name for an album, or hasn't, in which case all I can say is, "oops").

I'm pretty sure the question is rhetorical, and I'm also pretty sure that he's using a different definition of the word hustler. Webster's definition of the act of hustling: "To obtain something by energetic and especially underhanded activity." In Jay-Z's world, hustlers are cocky, swaggering hipsters who we are meant to admire (I know this because he told me so himself back when we used to roll together).

But in my world, the hustlers I see are the guys outside of Wawa ready to pounce with a sad story and a hand outstretched.

Everyone has a different initial reaction to West Philadelphia's homeless population. There is, of course, the suburban shock: Why can't the dirty rascals get off their lazy butts and inherit money like the rest of us? Some operate on the other end of the spectrum and are active in groups that try to help the homeless population on campus and around the city. I fall somewhere in between. However, my general impression is that most people, when confronted with a beggar, run the gamut from skeptical to downright hostile.

And why shouldn't they be hostile? What right do these tired, poor, huddled masses have to demand our money! We (or at least, our parents) worked hard for it. Certainly, it seems that the more you work for your resources, the less willing you are to part with them on what could be deemed a frivolous venture.

Beggars prey on the sensibilities of sensitive, na‹ve freshmen -- or so we're taught at orientation. Don't believe their stories; they all have shelters they could go to if they wanted to, and some of these guys make upwards of 100 bucks a day begging (excuse me -- panhandling).

Plus, even if for some inexplicable reason you feel compelled to at least try and assist those less fortunate than you, there are far better ways to do it. Churches in this city, for example, often stay open 24 hours a day to offer shelter to the homeless during the 7 or 8 months a year of bitter cold. Assisting them in this endeavor has a far greater effect than simply dropping a few coins and calling it a year's worth of charity.

I can understand that rationale, but some other reasons escape me. My personal favorite is the line I hear so often: "Oh, I don't give money to homeless guys. They say they just want to get an affordable and nutritious meal, but I know they're actually going to spend it on booze."

Really. That's not something we'd ever do, right? I have to tell you, my booze-to-nutritious-meal ratio since coming to college isn't so hot.

So why do I feel compelled to give money? It's not like I'm swimming in the stuff, even though loose change means far less to me than it does to them. Still, with every rational, logical reason working against me, I find myself "helping out" from time to time -- not always, mind you, but more than makes sense.

As usual, my thoughts on the subject are best expressed by someone else. In a scene from Tom Stoppard's Indian Ink, a young Englishman is horrified by the beggars he sees around him and asks his Indian guide how he deals with it. When you see a beggar, the guide suggests, think, "Do I need a beggar today?" If you do, give some money, and if not, don't worry about it.

Maybe I give because of some half-assed, subconscious belief in righting karmic imbalance, that the simple act of kindness will come back to me eventually. Maybe I'm not-so-secretly a softy, no matter how hard I try.

Or maybe I know that, were it not for pure, blind, dumb luck, our roles could easily be reversed. Who would help me if I had my hand out? Maybe, I think, there but for the grace of God go I.

In George Orwell's Down and Out in Paris and London, he wrote that the thing that disturbed him most about being ragged and on the streets was the manner in which upper-class ladies recoiled in horror and disgust at his very appearance. It dehumanized him and affected him in a way that little else could. I don't want to do that.

Maybe spare change isn't the solution. Sometimes, I talk to these guys about why they're on the streets, and there is truth in their stories, even if the stories themselves are false. Sometimes, if I pass a guy who asks for change and I say, "sorry," just by acknowledging his existence instead of fixing my gaze and blazing on by, I can hear him say, "thanks" or "God bless" as I go by. Maybe they just don't want to be ignored.

At the end of the day, I don't think that's too much to ask.

Eliot Sherman is a junior English major from Philadelphia, Pa., and editorial page editor of The Daily Pennsylvanian. Diary of a Madman appears on alternate Thursdays.

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